Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(57)
By the time I made it to the shop, there was no more butter.
But it hardly seemed to matter anymore.
Your fondest friend,
Somebody
My Darling Somebody,
Do you suppose that forgiveness is real? I do not speak of God. What I mean is, can we forgive ourselves for allowing wickedness to flourish? I read in a book once that no matter what pain or misfortune may come our way, we might yet transform it into some good. I cling to the idea of that. As I cling to the idea of you.
With love and affection,
Your Nobody
July sprang up, fresh and bold, then wilted under the weight of summer heat. No cool breeze could be found, not even down by the lake. The usually stalwart Fr?ulein Volker shortened the girls’ hikes, much to Sophie’s relief, and allowed them to strip down and float in the comfort of a wooded stream while she fanned herself and muttered, “Gott in Himmel. This heat.” In August, the Luftwaffe bombed London. A day later, the British bombed Berlin. Already, Sophie was becoming accustomed to the blackouts, to the long nights listening for the approaching swarm of bombers. September again. Sophie turned sixteen, another birthday without Hanna. The weather was turning cooler. Sophie dreaded the thought of another winter.
My Dearest Nobody,
I suppose we are in for a longer war than most thought. We received our new ration cards. Only one pound of meat per week doesn’t seem like much. And my papa is unhappy about the restrictions on shaving cream. He’s threatening to grow a wizard’s beard, which I would quite like.
Sometimes I think that if I didn’t write to you, I would feel as if I didn’t exist. Ephemeral. It means “impermanence; lasting for only a short time.” That’s a word I collected. I like collecting words. I like knowing that they exist and that they can have many different meanings. Or that you think you know the definition but find that you were wrong, that you missed some small detail that changes it entirely.
I am sixteen now. Happy birthday to me. Though I suppose it doesn’t really matter. We are all ephemeral in the end.
Yours always,
Somebody
October. A brick shattered the window of the bookshop. A prank from a trio of Hitler Youth boys no older than twelve. They’d been scolded and made to sweep up the glass but the incident had left a chill. Sophie’s mother and father had gotten into another argument about leaving, with Sophie’s mother begging her father to pack up and go and Sophie’s father insisting it would all blow over soon enough.
“What are they saying?” Lieselotte asked, sneaking up behind Sophie, who was listening at the top of the stairs. Liesl had become nosier since joining the Jungm?del and Sophie worried that her little sister might mistake tattling on their family for duty. Already, she was quoting her indoctrination like scripture.
“Having more babies,” Sophie lied.
A look of horror spread across Liesl’s face. She bounded back to their room and shut the door, just as Sophie had hoped. In the kitchen, her mother was crying; her father’s voice soothed her with assurances. “It will pass, my darling.”
The weather had turned overnight.
My Dearest Somebody,
I have been pondering your word, “ephemeral.” It is a good word, I feel. Do you ever gaze up at the night sky and wonder what account the stars keep of us? All those thousands of years watching us make the same mistakes?
I read once about a sound, “om,” that the Hindus hold sacred. Do you know this? It is called the “word of words,” a holy syllable that unites earth and heaven. It is birth, life, and death. It is God within a vibration. Do you think there could be such a sound that could unify every person, every movement, every atom in the universe? Would its forgiveness travel through our cells and transform us from within? Do you think it is possible?
I have said that I like to fix whatever is broken, but I am a broken thing and I do not yet know if I am beyond repair. I do know that I love you. And for you, for us, for the world, I say now, om.
Yours always,
Nobody
Sophie stared at the words I love you to make sure she’d read them correctly. The thrill of it rushed through her so fast her face went hot. She read the sentence again and again. But the letter also worried Sophie. It was melancholy. Full of lamentations. Under the tree, she pressed her lips together trying to form this word of words. She did not know if the sound was a short or long O. She spoke it aloud into the forest but the only vibration she heard was her own voice.
Dearest Nobody,
I tried speaking “om” into the forest, but I am not sure that I did it correctly. I wish I could hear your voice. Your last letter left me feeling happier than I have ever felt in my whole life. To be loved. Is there anything greater? I love you, too. Wholly and completely. It seems strange to say that since we’ve never met. But I do. I will leave you with another of my favorite words, “redemption.” What I like is that it implies that we are imperfect beings who can right our wrongs. We can grow and change and be better going forward. This hope might be the best true magic I know, a form of love beyond us. I’m sure the stars would understand. Maybe one day, we will ask them together.
Please don’t be sad.
Yours forever,
Somebody
The next time Sophie wrote to Hanna in Poland, she added om to her list of words of the day. No doubt, practical Hanna would scoff at the notion of two little letters capable of holding so much mercy and love within their vibrations. Nevertheless, it was worth a try.